


Well Enough

by Unpainted Canvas (RatTale)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Kiss, Fluffy, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 08:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17260634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatTale/pseuds/Unpainted%20Canvas
Summary: Sometimes Watson can be a little oblivious. Much to Holmes' frustration.





	Well Enough

Of course he wouldn’t notice! It's not as if Watson actually _used_ his eyes! Holmes flung himself into his chair with a hard huff, puffing furiously at his pipe. That was perhaps a little harsh, but how blind did his friend have to be?

 

Holmes adored Watson! Despite his difficulty expressing it, there could be no doubt that Sherlock Holmes not only admired his friend, but was sincerely in love with him.

 

How can he not see what was a mere foot in front of him? Watson was his muse, his heart and soul, Holmes in turn fed the adventurous streak within his friend. They filled each other in those darker spots in their souls where they’d been hurt and cut. He was certain Watson knew this.

 

But then why would he go out with a _woman_?

 

He'd brought her in only that afternoon, showing off her bright smile, red curls and sweet demeanour. Watson had introduced her, the name had been lost in the sea of shock Holmes had found himself drowning in. A sharp cut of betrayal making him bleed where Watson couldn’t see.

 

They’d left at seven, it was nearing nine in the evening and they still had yet to return.

 

His eyes became unfocussed, a fierce despondency grabbing a hold of his soul, unless of course Watson simply had no interest in _him_.

 

No, no it couldn't be! He had seen it with his own eyes, the affectionate tone he used when writing those blasted stories, the way he would oft times gaze at Holmes when he believed it went unnoticed. Admiration and adoration clear in his eyes, as if he couldn't be happier when they were together. His smiles, secret and soft, touches and caresses sometimes lingering, making Holmes' heart beat faster.

 

There could be no other alternative.

 

He stood, suddenly tired of his pipe, the room thick with smog, and stormed to his room. If Watson would be going out every second night then Holmes would not be held responsible for his cocaine intake!

 

He didn't take cocaine, he simply lay on his bed, toying with the syringe and waiting for Watson to come back. By the clock he came back only at 11, which indicated a successful evening. Holmes listened to Watson treading softly in the sitting-room, he opened a window, turned off the lights and then headed upstairs.

 

Holmes burrowed into the pillows and tried not to let the hurt and betrayal bury him.

 

The following morning he emerged to find Watson already up and about and sorting out his writing. “Good morning, Holmes!” he called, and Holmes felt his heart jump at the sight of him in a dressing gown. There was something about Watson in disarray that brought out the worst in him.

 

“Watson,” he greeted and collapsed in his chair at breakfast, lifted the lid and ignored the movement behind him. Watson went about his business without another word. Holmes grit his teeth, he was going to have to ask, “How did your evening go with … your lady.”

 

“Miss Jackson.” Watson supplied with nary a blink, “Well enough, I suppose.”

 

Holmes perked at the comment. Well enough translated to 'things did not go entirely well.' Sitting up a little straighter he asked, “You seem a little worried, old bean.”

 

Watson hesitated, replaced the papers and crossed the room to sit down at breakfast, “She is thinking of moving to America back to her family.” he looked a little pensive, “She made it clear she would like her husband to move with her.” he chuckled, “We're not that far yet, but I can't see myself moving away from my beloved city.”

 

Holmes suppressed the urge to grin like a fool, poured himself a cup of tea and said, “Me neither, my dear Watson.”

 

They finished breakfast sharing the paper and good coffee. And three weeks later when Watson returned at a respectable hour, Holmes permitted himself a smile.  
  
  
  
 *** * * * ***  
  


Of course it didn't last!

 

No less than three months later Watson found another Miss Something to parade in front of Holmes like some sort of insult. He was of course courteous, he could never belittle or disappoint his friend in that way. But this one was beautiful.

 

Pale, raven haired with a perfect smile, she was pretty, she was smart, she was strong and sensible and she was everything Watson looked for in a partner. She was a damned problem. But he'd never seen Watson that happy, he'd never seen him turn that secret, soft smile on anyone but Holmes.

 

And now _she_ was privy to it!

 

Yet he couldn't begrudge him that happiness. Not matter how much he wanted Watson for himself he knew that should they pursue anything, it would not be the happy open marriage his friend clearly craved. It was very possible Watson simply didn’t wish to have a relationship with Holmes, because he knew what it would entail; secrets and quiet frustration.

 

But Holmes would not give in that easily. At the very least he would like to attempt it.

 

Watson’s evenings stretched into late nights once more, and Holmes found himself reaching for – yet never using – the Morocco box. How dare he drive him to temptation!

 

The two had pranced out of the room a good three hours ago, and Holmes was becoming quietly desperate. In the few months following the pretty red head he'd delicately hoped to coerce his friend into realising that he might be happy with him.

 

But 'clumsy flirt' would be an understatement. He was downright tone-deaf when it came to courting anyone. Most of his advances were either ignored or misunderstood. No less than three times Watson had looked at him with a rather worried and slightly fearful expression, and Holmes had fought down a blush before running for his life – figuratively of course.

 

It was hopeless! By this rate Watson would flee the apartment, and Holmes would end up committing suicide from sheer embarrassment.

 

He was just considering the wisdom of laying naked on the damned couch with a sign 'for Watson' tied around his neck, when said man walked in.

 

“Evening Holmes,” He was soaked, and Holmes had to turn around to look out the window to confirm that it was in fact raining, but quite softly, more of a drizzle really.

 

“Evening,” Holmes replied. Watson had been out walking. And by the tone of the voice, it wasn't for a good reason. He stood and Watson headed for the decanter to pour himself a strong whiskey. “How was your evening?”

 

Watson took a large gulp and turned, “Well enough.”  
  
Holmes hesitated. Well enough translated to 'things did not go entirely well.' But sometimes it could be worse than that.“You're not a very good liar, Watson.”

 

He chuckled, “No, I don't suppose I am.” Almost in a daze his hand came up to touch his shoulder, his gaze unfocussed and far away, thinking about something. Most likely about tonight. His heart wrenched at the sight, and almost without thought he reached out and touched Watson's hand over the shoulder.

 

“She said something about your scars.” he said, instantly recognising the look as a sort of regret mixed with pain. He despised that expression on his friend – it came so far and few but it still made him want to hurt someone.

 

His smile was brittle, almost too faded, “She said they were ugly,” his laugh was even more broken than the smile, “I'm not a vain creature, Holmes but...”

 

Knowing your partner found you repulsive still hurts. Damn that harpy. His hand tightened around Watson's, before gently sliding over the shoulder to press against the still wet fabric. Watson looked up in surprise, and Holmes met his eyes with conviction. “I could never find them ugly. They remind me of your bravery and courage, of your mettle and willpower.” Holmes said, keeping fierce eye contact and allowing his hand to grip him lightly, “Of your self-sacrificing nature and kindness. But then, I don't have to see them to know that.”

 

For a moment his friend seemed speechless, almost shocked by the words, and Holmes felt a tingle of pride at achieving such a reaction. Then Watson smiled, a real one, full of the familiar warmth and easy happiness he associated with him.

 

“Thank you, Holmes.”

 

Holmes, now lost for words, smiled back and kept his hand tight on the shoulder. They remained like that, the air warm and bright around them – almost anticipating, Holmes wasn't exactly sure what for. Then Watson pulled away, and downing his glass he said his goodnight and went to his bedroom.

 

Holmes watched him go. He should have kissed him, he thought, the window of opportunity was now closed, but he smiled nonetheless. Things were moving in the right direction, they would probably end the courtship and he would have another chance yet.

 

He went to bed with a lighter heart.

   
 *** * * * ***  
  


Of course this one _would_ last!

 

Despite the scar-issue, for some reason the harpy remained, and Watson was still happy with her. Her name, Miss Harper suited the vixen, but Watson seemed as happy as ever, and Holmes was starting to believe she would become the next Miss Watson.

 

He couldn't bare that.

 

But it kept steady, every week brought more evenings that were taken from Holmes to be given to Harper. And with each passing day Holmes' mood darkened. He was going to lose Watson again to a woman, and he would not come back this time. Somehow he knew this.

 

This ugly thought brewed into an obsession of the most vile sort. Holmes became angry, depressed and cruel. Watson took the brunt of his fury, as he always did, but this time with far more confusion than before. Holmes knew he was hurting his friend, but he couldn’t stop it. His amateur flirting didn't work and suggestions and indirect questions proved fruitless. He was going to lose Watson.

 

It was this thought which froze him to the bone, and which finally prompted him to sneer one evening. “Why do you stay with her?”

 

Watson, surprised by his speaking looked up for a moment from his work. He scrutinized Holmes for a moment before finally shrugging. “I wish to be happy,” he dropped another few pages in the bin. “She is pleasing enough conversation, she makes me laugh and I find her attractive, of course.”

 

Of course. His blood simmered, the rage and frustration brought to a boiling point from that single statement. “And I do not?”

 

He looked up, clear confusion on his features “I'm sorry?”

 

Holmes stood, the anger bright enough to make him shake, “I do believe, Watson, that _our_ conversations are far superior in depth and intellect to anything you might enjoy with Miss Harper!”

 

“Well, yes of course -”

 

“We have made each other laugh on many an occasion, and without much effort either!”

 

“Yes, certainly -”

 

“And over all, despite some differences here and there you have been happy with me? With our adventures, our mysteries and friendship all accounted for?”

 

“Why, yes of course, Holmes!”

 

“Then why leave?” he asked, voice desperate and fierce, “You want for nothing here, I give you everything that is in my power to give. You find me attractive, as I do you! We are an almost perfect balance of one another, I can think of no greater match! And you wish to throw it all away on a life with a Miss Harper whom shall never understand you as well as I do!”

 

The weight of the silence was a clear indicator of how loud he had gotten. Holmes forced his muscles to relax, taking hard breaths to bring his breathing under control. He couldn’t face him now, dear God he hadn’t been this emotional in a very long time.

 

“You find me attractive?”

 

Holmes looked up, his friend stood where he’d frozen since the start of the rant. Hand holding some papers absently, eyes wide, nervous and yet so very hopeful.

 

Holmes felt his muscles tense up again, he’d said that hadn’t he? Yes he had, oh dear, he had said so. But Watson didn’t seem appalled, why would he? He seemed more _surprised_. Had his friend really been that blind since the beginning? Had that been the only hurdling block? The only thing keeping him from reaching out to Holmes? Uncertainty in Holmes's affection?

 

He _was_ a useless flirt.

 

Holmes swallowed, then nodded. To his utter surprise Watson's smile conveyed pure relief, eyes suddenly bright. In three clipped strides he closed the distance between them coming to a stop right in front him Holmes.

 

“I was never sure,” and with a quiet smile he took both his hands in his own, they were trembling, and then he kissed him.

 

His heart stuttered and instantly his eyes fluttered shut, breathing in Watson’s scent, his softness and calloused palms - Holmes wanted them everywhere. He huffed out a sudden breath when Watson pressed a little closer, sliding his mouth expertly over his own, making him shudder and his breath hitch.

 

When he finally pulled away Holmes was gasping, hands trembling and his own eyes blurred with tears. There was so much he wanted to say, from how happy he was to how much he loved him at that moment, but all that came out was a choked and desperate; “I cannot offer children or a conventional married life, Watson.”

 

Holmes slid a hand over his rough cheek, “This will be our secret, kept safe by caution and fear.” he swallowed, “If you still wish to have me, I would want nothing more, and I will give all I am able to.”

 

“Oh, Holmes.” Watson mirrored his hand, brushing it against his cheek, his smile soft and understanding. “That's well enough for me.”

 

Holmes' heart stuttered. Well enough often translated to 'not so well' but sometimes it could mean something far better than that; like perfect.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't write humour a lot... because humour and I do not have a good relationship; as in I suck at it XD


End file.
